The Eyes Are Honest
by filthiestofweebsdesu
Summary: Slade has a reason for everything he does, but he won't always admit it. (Expands upon "Hidden Intent," but can be read on its own.)
1. Chapter 1

Recently, Deathstroke had been offered a rather unusual job: keeping watch during a drug shipment. Cocaine, to be specific. Not his usual line of work by any means, but the employer had been very particular about the fact that he couldn't trust just _anybody_ for such an assignment, because in Gotham, you didn't always know where a person's loyalties lay. But Deathstroke had a _very_ good reputation.

It definitely wasn't the kind of work he liked. It was, quite frankly, _boring_ \- unstimulating, uninteresting, and entirely unremarkable, except for perhaps the occasional gunfight that would tend to break out, which wasn't exactly safe to be caught in the middle of. It also didn't help that the people in those circles had an irritating tendency to be some of the _scummiest_ scum of the earth - but at the end of the day, money was money, and something cocaine dealers had a _lot_ of.

So, Deathstroke had taken the job, and when the night came, he was discreetly keeping watch from near the entrance of Gotham's docks, as a group of men a little ways behind him was busy stocking a cargo ship with crates of salt - which was hiding the cocaine, of course.

They were just finishing up and preparing to set sail when Slade saw a shadow flicker ever-so _slightly_ from the corner of his eye, something any normal person would never have noticed. His instinctive suspicion was of Batman, but that would be odd, given how busy he had been with Riddler's shenanigans the past few days. Maybe he'd finally gotten him back to Arkham. Or maybe he had sent out one of the new Robins to --

"Drugs? Really? I always thought this kinda thing was too low for you, Slade."

Ah. Nightwing. _Fantastic_. The perfect person to ruin a perfect evening.

Slowly, Slade turned to face the man.

"Shouldn't you be in Blüdhaven?" he inquired, ignoring his question. He appeared calm and collected as always, but inwardly, he was seething; knowing Nightwing, the guy had probably been here this _entire time_, waiting silently for the crew to drop their guard, only announcing his presence to Slade once he realized that the man had already sensed him.

Hands on his hips, Nightwing shrugged. "Been a quiet week. Figured I'd drop by for old times' sake, Bat's been pretty booked. That's why you came to Gotham, right?" he said, that stupid, knowing, smug, lopsided _grin_ plastered on his face as he said it. _Taunting_ him.

Ever since he had been a tiny little Robin, the boy always had to _meddle_. Slade knew it was a Bat's job, but it felt like the kid was always specifically targeting him. Robin - Nightwing, now - had a special way of doing that to people.

All of Gotham's underground feared Batman, sure - they never knew when he was going to creep up from behind and take them down swiftly and silently from the shadows, and it was, quite frankly, terrifying. But they had all harbored a _special_ branch of hatred for the original Boy Wonder, what with his traffic-light garb just _screaming_ "I'm right here, come and get me!" as he moved far too swiftly and nimbly to even be hit with a scratch. It was like he was _mocking_ them, it always felt so _personal_, and it was absolutely _infuriating_.

It didn't help, either, that he always had to crack a few jokes in the process, usually at his opponent's expense.

If Slade was honest, it _had_ been rather endearing the first few times. But after _years_ of _constantly_ getting in Slade's way during jobs, he had long lost all but a tiny, _tiny_ sliver of patience for the man's antics. He just wanted to get this over with and get back to his work, but Nightwing never made it easy.

"Run along. I don't have time for you," Slade said coolly, trying _very hard_ not to lose the rest of his grip and throw the man across the docks and into the nearest wall.

Because he had done that once, years ago, and it didn't exactly end well. For Slade. Never underestimate a gymnast.

Nightwing tutted at him. "Shame. And I was gonna ask if you wanted to go for a movie."

"You're _insufferable_."

"It's a gift, what can I say?" the hero quipped, shrugging again, before his demeanor morphed into something a bit more serious.

"So, you gonna give yourself up, or are we gonna have to do this the hard way?"

"I think you know my answer," Slade replied smoothly.

Because if they could just get the cargo ship sailing, get it far enough away from land that Nightwing could no longer reach it without proper assistance and gear, Deathstroke would get paid. What happened to the shipment afterwards wasn't his concern - Batman or the police could track it and arrest everybody on the ship later for all he cared. He just wanted his check, and just had to keep the hero busy for another half hour or so in order to obtain it.

Of course, said hero seemed to have pieced together as much, and he wasn't going to let himself go down easily.

But, as adept as Nightwing was, _Slade_ was the one with enhanced abilities. Slade knew he didn't have to cause him any genuine or permanent harm, just keep him occupied - as long as he didn't let the man catch him off guard, he would, eventually, wear him out, which was much preferable to _really_ hurting him and, in the process, angering the Bat (who was, by the way, very, _very_ annoying to try and shake off when he was angry. Slade had seen that secondhand and would really rather not experience it himself, thank you very much.)

So, within seconds, the two were sparring, dancing in a flurry of blows and dodges, the men behind them finally noticing the intruder and picking up their pace.

Nightwing and Deathstroke continued their dance for several minutes. It always seemed to happen this way, nowadays: despite Slade's genetic enhancements and his years of military training, they were almost evenly matched. (_Almost_.) As Robin, Dick had always put up a good fight with him, though ultimately tended to go down rather quickly - at least, he did at first. Slade initially thought he was too naïve, too small, and too gullible to ever _really_ be a formidable opponent to a truly-competent fighter, but he soon realized that the kid was a quick learner, scarily determined, frustratingly agile and significantly more adaptive than his cowl-clad father figure, and he had quickly blossomed into a force for Gotham to be reckoned with. And now? He almost felt _sorry_ for any poor soul who was _idiotic_ enough to pick a fight with him. _Slade_ could take him down of course, if he _really_ wanted to, but if he didn't have superhuman reflexes, surely he'd have already-

Too late, Slade realized he had fallen for a cleverly-timed feign, the hero half a second from landing a rather devastating blow to his legs --

\-- when all of a sudden, his ears were ringing, _screaming_ at him, and he was pushed back and blinded by an angry burst of burning light.

_An explosion_, he realized, as the all-too-familiar, all-too-acrid smell of smoke hit his nose. The cargo ship had just blown up.

Well, there went his paycheck.

It took him a minute to steady himself and regain his senses fully. When he did, he wasn't all too surprised to hear the frenzied screaming of men, seeing some scurrying away as others burned away with the cargo, which no one was bothering to try and salvage. The flames were just too massive, too intense.

Slade had no more reason to be invested in this at this point.

So, briefly, he mentally assessed himself for injuries, and finding none of any significance, was about to make a run for it so he could get out of there before the whole place lit up. But before taking two steps towards freedom, he saw that the hero had not been so fortunate.

A large shard of metal, probably part of the ship, had evidently gone flying in the explosion, piercing Nightwing's chest through his Kevlar. The man didn't even seem to realize it; having seemingly recovered his own sense of sight, he was beginning to run in the direction of the flames, likely (definitely) in an attempt to see who of the crew had survived and might need medical attention...until half way to his destination, he stumbled, the cause of his unsteadiness only dawning on him when he was on his knees, finally seeing the dark crimson liquid that was slowly dripping down from his suit and onto the cement beneath him.

Even still, he tried to get up again, only to stumble and fall once more, this time ending up not on his knees, but curled up on his side as he hit the ground.

It was moronic, in Slade's opinion, but he couldn't deny that the kid was determined. Still, as Nightwing was weakly clawing at the ground in a hopeless attempt to get up again, beginning to choke on the advancing cloud of smoke, he decided he had seen enough. So he rushed over, scooping him up into his arms, and against Nightwing's feeble protests, dashed out of the now-burning maze of ships and crates, doing his best not to jostle him as he did so.

Once Slade was certain they were at a safe distance from the fire, in the opposite direction of the wind-blown smoke, he lay Nightwing down gently on the cold, damp concrete, kneeling by his side in order to gauge the damage done.

There was only the one shard, but Slade had no way to know how long it was, and as a result, no way to know the severity of the wound. But judging by the amount of pain Nightwing looked to be in (all of the Bats were damn near impervious to pain, it seemed, particularly the original two) and the fact that he wasn't currently berating him over leaving several injured men behind to die in a fire, Slade guessed that it was pretty bad. And that was ignoring the rather generous amount of blood that had already seeped out from behind the metal. He had to slow the bleeding down, or Nightwing would die within minutes, at best.

So, leaving the shard where it was, Slade carefully applied firm pressure around the wound, doing his best to slow the bleeding without disturbing the stabbing site. Nightwing reacted with a brief whimper, breath hitching, but otherwise didn't stir much, which Slade wasn't sure was because he was well-trained or because he had become too weak or disoriented to react, or to know what was going on.

Slade decided he had to get his attention, and so he spoke to the injured man, loud enough to hopefully reach him through any remaining ringing in his ears, but the words carried by a gentleness that was most uncharacteristic of Deathstroke the Terminator.

"Nightwing. Nightwing, look at me."

There was no indication that the man had heard him. He was unusually still - definitely not a word Slade would've ever thought to use to describe the kid before now - and his breathing was strained, his breaths minute, as though expanding his lungs was painful - whether from the injury, prior smoke inhalation, or both, Slade wasn't sure.

So, the mercenary tried a different approach, one that was perhaps more familiar to both of them, speaking a little bit louder this time.

"Robin."

Still no response. Just the whispers of strained, pained breathing.

"_Richard_."

_That_ finally got his attention, at least as much of it as was possible in his current state; he was faring better than most would in his situation for sure - Slade didn't think he had gone into shock yet - but still didn't seem to be quite all there, either.

"S-Slade," Richard slurred, looking up at the man, voice hoarse from the previous smoke exposure. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, but something behind them clicked in recognition.

"That's right, it's me. I want you to just focus on me. Don't let yourself drift. Understand?"

Dick grunted in what seemed to be acknowledgement, seemingly a bit more lucid now, before he coughed a series of very wet coughs, scarlet droplets lightly spattering his lips and face.

He was in worse shape than Slade had thought.

So, as he delicately turned Dick to lie on his side in order to prevent him from choking on his own blood, Slade weighed his options. Or lack of them, rather.

He knew he didn't have the means to treat Nightwing here, and didn't have time to transport him to a place where he would. He realized he had no choice but to call an ambulance. The Bat was the ideal option, but Slade didn't know where he was, or if _he_ had proper means to treat Nightwing, either. Batman would be his second call, he decided - and _hopefully_ he would get here sooner than the paramedics, and with the means to treat the injured man, somehow.

Because Slade hated to be the one to expose Nightwing's identity - he knew what kind of hassle and danger that inevitably entailed for a person - but it was risk that or let him die, and for some reason he couldn't explain, he wouldn't - he _could not_ \- bring himself to allow the latter. He only hoped the doctors could keep a secret, though he wasn't holding his breath...maybe he could pay them to keep quiet if it came to that. Or he could...silence them some other way. If he had to.

But that wasn't his top concern right now.

One hand still pressed against Nightwing's chest, he hurriedly pulled out a cell phone from his pocket (a phone that couldn't be tracked - he used it for his work) and he dialed, an emergency dispatcher piping up on the line shortly after. He didn't keep the call going for long, just long enough to give her an injury description and a location, and to know that she was, in fact, sending an ambulance (he knew it was her job, but he had to be _sure_), before hanging up on the poor lady as she'd been in mid-sentence. He just didn't have that kind of time to waste.

When that was done, he pocketed the now-bloodied device and replaced his other hand, getting Nightwing's attention again.

"Richard. What is Batman's frequency? I need to know Batman's com frequency."

The hero's eyes were hazy, and his brows furrowed lightly in the weak amount of concentration he could manage.

"S'ven..."

His brows furrowed further.

"_Seven_...no, m..."

He looked truly lost, and his voice quivered with creeping panic when he finally mumbled, "I don't remember."

"That's alright." It wasn't alright, not really, but having him work himself up couldn't do any good. Dread starting to simmer within him, Slade resigned himself to the fact that he might have to -

"Wait. Didn't...didn't change it."

Lucky break.

So Slade plucked Nightwing's earpiece from his ear and put it into his own, then lifted the man's wrist to speak into his communicator, already set to the Dark Knight's frequency, and pressed what he had to assume was the call button. Soon he heard the noise of the other line sparking to life. He spoke first.

"Batman."

"Who is this?" came Batman's stern voice from the other end. No doubt he thought Nightwing had been captured, his captor calling the bat with his gear in order to ask for ransom of some sort.

Slade spoke quickly, but clearly. "Nightwing's been injured, shard of metal to the chest. We're a quarter of a mile south of the Gotham docks. I've called an ambulance, but I thought you may want to be here for him."

_He might not have that much time_, was what Batman knew the mystery man meant, and so his demeanor shifted entirely - still stern, gruff, short, but for an entirely different set of reasons - as he replied.

"I'm on my way."


	2. Chapter 2

When Batman arrived near the docks, he was rather taken aback (confused? Batman didn't get confused) by the fact that it was _Deathstroke_ who was kneeling by Nightwing's side, applying pressure to his bleeding torso. The man had been strangely helpful to them a couple of times before, sure...but even so, he wouldn't have expected..._this_.

But now wasn't the time to think about it. Dick's life was slipping away from them, and he had to act—and quickly.

As he swiftly approached the two, he was unsettled, though unsurprised, to find that Nightwing was out cold—though despite this, the assassin was speaking quietly to the man, and it seemed as though perhaps he had been since before Batman's arrival. He quieted entirely, however, before the other was in complete earshot.

Batman broke the silence.

"How long has he been unconscious?" he asked, his voice oddly strained, urgent.

"About two minutes. He was awake for about fifteen, lucid for five. Paramedics should arrive soon," Slade reported, and as if on cue, the whine of sirens suddenly became audible in the distance.

But the figure on the ground next to them looked frighteningly pale, and his lips were beginning to turn a chilling shade of blue.

Batman shook his head. "It's been a busy night, they won't be fast enough. There's blood we can give him, but I'll need your help," he said quickly, beginning to carefully pick Nightwing up. Deathstroke didn't hesitate to assist, his iron hold surrounding the man's injury not weakening as he did so.

Batman led them over to the Batmobile, the back seat of which was apparently spacious enough to have been turned into a makeshift medical station. It occurred to Slade that he shouldn't be surprised, as the vehicle needed to have enough space inside it to potentially be able to fit multiple criminals, Robins, and injured heroes at once, but from the outside, it had always looked deceptively compact, despite the car's massive silhouette; though he supposed that if anyone could accomplish such a design, Wayne Tech could. It also occurred to Slade that Wayne Manor, which he had to assume was Batman's—Bruce's, but don't tell anyone that he knew it—headquarters of operation, was too far away for him to have arrived here so quickly, let alone so prepared. He must have had a safehouse nearby, and must have been close to it already when Slade had called him.

Carefully, and without a word, the two eased the sleeping Nightwing into the back-seat-turned-hospital bed, settling him on his side, both conscious men alert and actively watching to make sure he kept breathing. Batman quickly got to work setting up IVs for the boy (how he did so in the dark was anyone's guess), most of which were connected to bags of blood (because leave it to the Bats to refrigerate their own blood and save it for a rainy day). As he worked, he would occasionally motion to Slade for assistance with holding this or that, and Slade would comply without question, still silent, still watching the sleeping figure next to them, still listening intently for anything that might go wrong.

They finished after a couple of minutes, sirens now blaring, red and blue flashing in the distance. Though the angle was awkward, Bruce managed to place his hands where Slade's had been minutes before, stemming the bleeding of Nightwing's wound again (though by now, the bleeding had slowed significantly).

Slade tried not to think about how Richard didn't react this time.

Gaze not leaving the man's face, he finally resigned himself to the fact that they had done all they could for Nightwing at the moment. Now they just had to wait for the ambulance to come around the corner; surely Batman knew of a place they could take a vigilante to receive medical treatment, secret identity intact, but in the meantime the paramedics could hopefully keep Richard stable, keep him alive. Both Bruce Wayne and Batman had tremendous pull with Gotham's law-abiding citizens, and though he didn't often take advantage of it (Boy Scout that he was), Slade was sure he of all people could—_non-violently_—keep them from breathing a word about any learned secret identities or locations afterwards. If not, then, well...hopefully Richard would forgive him for stepping in.

Batman's voice—unusually quiet, even for him—broke Slade away from his musings.

"They'll be here soon. You should leave," it said.

_You should leave, or you'll be arrested._

Strange for the Bat to just let him go. But he wasn't going to argue.

So with a hum and one final glance at the blue-and-black-clad figure beside them, Deathstroke nodded, and he disappeared.

Neither Bruce nor Slade slept that night.


	3. Chapter 3

The other Bats were covering for Nightwing down in Blüdhaven, so Batman was patrolling Gotham alone tonight.

Not that Dick hadn't wanted to join him. ("C'mon B, m'bored outta my _mind_ here, y'gotta gimme _something_!" he had whined, with no short amount of slurred syllables, as he lay very medicated and in no state to be doing much of anything in a hospital bed in the top-secret Bat wing of Leslie's clinic.) But he'd only been recovering for a week and wouldn't be doing any hero-ing for at least another three months if Alfred had anything to say about it...which he absolutely did of course, because Alfred was _Alfred_ and nothing got past him, ever. (And Dick always fell asleep before he could really try anything, anyway. Maybe in a couple more weeks Alfred'd have to start _really_ putting his foot down.)

When the surprisingly-peaceful night of patrol had come to an end, Batman was almost to the Batmobile, inwardly quite eager to stop and visit Dick at the clinic on his way home, when he sensed someone approaching from the alleyway shadows. He was immediately on high alert, until...

"How is he?" Deathstroke asked him.

Bruce relaxed, but didn't let his guard down. He never let his guard down.

"Rough shape, but he'll make it."

"I see."

There was a very lengthy pause between the two, interrupted only by the continuous and melodic chirping of crickets, before Batman turned to look him in the eye.

"You saved his life."

The other only hummed in response, arms crossed in typical, aloof Deathstroke fashion.

So the Bat elaborated. "...thank you, Slade."

Slade gave a low and humorless laugh, shaking his head. "You have nothing to thank me for. I was their watch, I was practically complicit."

"You weren't responsible for the fire."

The mercenary went silent at that for a moment, suddenly solemn, his own one-eyed gaze not faltering all the while.

"No, I suppose I wasn't."

It was quiet for another minute until Slade spoke again. Softly, this time. Carefully, even.

"You'll keep me updated on his condition?"

"I will." And Bruce meant it. Normally? He would have refused, or quietly not kept his word. But any uncertainty he had had about the mercenary's motivations surrounding his son had long since dissipated.

Because his son _would have_ died there, if not for Slade's intervention. Of that, he was absolutely, positively _sure_.

Because Batman was familiar with the dealers at fault, and knew that Deathstroke, as their guard, had had zero input on the actual operation—an operation that _would_ _have_ happened that night, with Nightwing there to try and stop it, whether the man had taken the job or not. In doing what he was hired for, Deathstroke had unwittingly kept Dick at a safe distance from the boat; otherwise, Dick likely would have thrown himself into the middle of the fray, as per his usual behavior, and as a result, been caught in the middle of the explosion itself—surely perishing with the other men there.

Of course, that didn't mean anything alone; it was all happenstance, and the two always seemed to be at each other's throats, after all.

But if Deathstroke had really wanted Nightwing out of the picture, it would have been easy. So, _so_ easy. He could have left him there at the docks to die, leaving behind no hard evidence of his involvement in the ordeal, no way to trace it back to him other than the flimsy word of a few surviving witnesses. No, the assassin didn't want Nightwing dead. He had, in fact, specifically gone out of his way, had risked his own arrest, quite possibly tarnished his own professional image, to keep death's approaching hands from stealing him away from them all.

His strange behavior these past several months suddenly made _so much sense_.

Whoever this masked man truly was, despite his occupation of choice, despite how he and Nightwing were always _clashing_...deep down, he cared about him. Even if he would never admit it to anybody. Even if he would never admit it to himself.

And he didn't have to. Batman had seen the look in his eye that night. Anybody could feign emotion, Batman knew, because it was as easy as throwing on a mask, as simple as throwing around the right words to the right people. But the eyes?

The eyes told everything, and the eyes never lied.


End file.
